


In Transition

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-15
Updated: 2010-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has never been so happy. Sherlock has never been so confused. Sex has never been so awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: John.  Early Days

**Author's Note:**

> This story started life as a sequel to Unpredictable, which tells how this Sherlock and John get together. It now also bridges the gap between two later fics, The Old Bad Songs and Beginning To See The Light.
> 
> This one's for ginbitch, the alpha plus of beta readers, who made it possible in the first place by her comments on The Old Bad Songs and who saved me and the characters from being permanently trapped in bad!scene!hell this time around.

The last patient of the day has gone, but John doesn't move from his desk. Too busy thinking.

He still doesn't really believe this is happening. Keeps thinking he's going to wake up back in the hospital and find the whole thing has been a dream. He seems to spend far too much time at the moment grinning like an idiot, or daydreaming about being in bed with Sherlock. Never thought anything like this would happen with another man. But then Sherlock isn't like any other man he's ever known.

Still takes some getting used to, though.

He hasn't said anything to Harry about it, of course – or, God forbid, their parents. Time enough for that when things have settled down a bit. They hadn't coped well with Harry, so God knows how they would – _will_ , he tells himself sternly, because sooner or later he'll have to tell them – cope with this.

And Sherlock isn't exactly anyone's idea of a son-in-law.

He's had a couple of texts from Clara since that night in the pub, suggesting meeting up and asking if he's OK. He tells her he's fine, just busy, that they'll meet soon. But he's avoiding it at the moment, because he feels as if this thing that's happened to him is written all over him, and she'll see it right away.

Feeling as if it's written all over him is both exciting and terrifying. Exciting because he wants _everybody_ to know what's happening with him and Sherlock, because being with Sherlock is the most amazing thing that's ever happened to him. How could it not be? To have someone so incredible look at you as if you're not the ordinary person you thought you were, but as if you are somehow transformed into something precious and amazing and wonderful. To be looked at _like that_ , with the full force of Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock's eyes. He gets dizzy just thinking about it.

But it's also terrifying to feel so _new_ , turned upside-down, changed, just beginning. And he wants to protect this new raw self that seems to have no shell, or too few skins. He's not sure he could cope with attack, in whatever form – and he imagines everything from ridicule to queerbashing. So he lives in a constant state of tension, seesawing between the incredible rush of being with Sherlock and the fear that any minute he will be hurt beyond repair.

He doesn't _think_ it's about the gay thing.

He always thought he was OK about that. He can't stand Harry, but that goes back to their childhood, before either of them had a sexuality to speak of. And he's always liked Clara. Had plenty of gay friends at Bart's, both sorts.

Still, there's a difference between having friends who are it and being it yourself. If that is what he is now.

He's never been so aware of the difference between being gay and straight. Like that first afternoon when he and Sherlock had finally dragged themselves out of bed and gone for a walk in Regent's Park to get some air. If he'd just got out of bed after all those hours with a girlfriend, he'd have put his arm round her or held her hand or stopped to kiss her, and thought nothing of it. Nobody would have thought anything of it. But all the things he wanted to do to Sherlock, all the ways he wanted to touch Sherlock, felt dangerous and forbidden. Still do. Which is difficult when you want to jump all over someone. When you're longing for him so much you feel as if your bones have melted and there's nothing holding you up any more.

He _really_ needs to calm down. At this rate he'll wear himself out before they've been together for a fortnight. Ten days – no, eleven – since that day he still doesn't like to think about even though the end of it was – nice. Lying in bed with Sherlock, finally, kissing and touching. Feeling the unhappiness begin to thaw from his body. Quiet at last. Takes a while to get over a day like that, though.

He's not completely sure they have yet. Maybe that's why they're still quite careful around each other. Still, it's early days. They'll probably relax more once they're more used to each other.

If you could ever get used to Sherlock.

And life goes on, more or less. He goes to work and stays focused as long as there's a patient in the room. Hard to stop his mind wandering in the moments between, though. Or like now, after the last patient of the day has gone.

And Sherlock seems happy – full of energy, busier than ever, solving things you'd think nobody could work out in a lifetime. Even Donovan was actually impressed with him, that last case they worked, and forgot to call him Freak. Anderson still can't find a good word to say for him, but to be fair that's not surprising.

Haven't seen much of Lestrade lately, which is a relief. Sherlock said he was busy, working some complicated case even Sherlock didn't seem to know the details of. John knows that thing between them must have been Sherlock's fault as much as Lestrade's. Still good not to have to see him, though.

The sex isn't very good yet, which is a bit of a worry. He doesn't know if he _should_ worry about it – hasn't really got a point of comparison. It's so long since he had a girlfriend that he doesn't remember too clearly what the sex there was like at the start.

They don't _do_ that much yet. Maybe because they're still being careful with each other.

He worries that he doesn't know what Sherlock likes, feels clumsy and inexperienced around Sherlock. Then there are times when Sherlock can't find the right rhythm for him, or it's too hard or not hard enough. Maybe it would work better if he guided Sherlock or something, but that idea keeps reminding him of Sherlock and Lestrade, and he doesn't want to think about that. Oral sex is more complicated than it looks in the films, too. Still trying to get the hang of that.

He sometimes thinks Sherlock might like something else, but they haven't talked about it.

Haven't talked much at all, really. Not about that sort of thing. Lots of talk about work, which is nice.

It is definitely the happiest he has ever been. He just wishes he weren't so tired all the time, but with all that's going on in his mind it's not surprising.

Like Sherlock said, sex isn't that important really. And it probably does get easier with practice.

He just hopes Sherlock's happy.


	2. Sherlock: The Weakness In Me

He doesn't understand what's happening to him, and he's always hated not being able to understand. The only thing that drives him crazier is being bored. Which he isn't, yet, though you'd think he would be, going over and over the same ground.

There is John, who is essential to him. He's never let anyone be that before. _I'd be lost without my blogger_ , he says, pretending it's a joke. Pretending that's all John is, the one who writes it all down afterwards. His chronicler. His biographer.

What he doesn't admit to anyone else, scarcely admits to himself: John is the first person who's made him feel _human_. Which is terrifying. The person Sherlock turns to instinctively now to tell him if something he's doing is _not good_. The one who makes him _feel_ what people had been telling him, with varying degrees of venom and point, for years: that there's something missing in him, something that doesn't work. Emotionally.

It never mattered before.

It does now.

He'd be lost without John Watson. And he's afraid of losing him. Afraid he'll do something so _not good_ that John will disappear. And Sherlock won't even know what it was.

The thought of it makes him wake up sweating, some nights.

He lies there, rigid with panic, staring into the darkness. Not daring to move closer to John, though he longs for comfort. Not a thing he ever used to want, or to understand anyone wanting.

Sometimes John wakes up anyway, holds him close and kisses him and strokes his hair till Sherlock's warm and drowsy and his clenched limbs begin to relax. Sometimes, even if John doesn't wake up, he'll throw his arm across Sherlock's body, and the weight of it will pull Sherlock down into sleep again, lulled by the steady rhythm of John's breathing.

He knows this can't last. Why would anyone in their right mind want to stay with _him_ , after all?

He's had a lifetime of people calling him a freak, one way or another. He used to despise the _normal_ ones with their funny little brains apparently untouched by most forms of rational thought. It was easy to feel superior to them. Because he was. Simple as that. He never thought he minded what they said.

But they were right, he realizes. Turns out he _is_ a freak. And the thought leaves him defenceless in the face of his fears of being abandoned.

It would feel safer, so much safer, if John weren't _the only one_. If there could be someone else as well.

But he has just about enough emotional intelligence – though _only_ just – to know that is not how it's supposed to be. And that John, being – mostly – conventional, probably wouldn't like it.

Mostly conventional. Not entirely, though. Anyone who kills a man – in civilian life rather than in a war zone – can't be entirely conventional. Even if he's doing it to save another man's life.

His own voice, telling Lestrade what he'd deduced about the shooter: _Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter, his hands couldn't have shaken at all. So clearly he's acclimatized to violence. Didn't fire till I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle... You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and - nerves of steel -_

The moment he realized he was looking at that man, standing the other side of a tape saying POLICE DO NOT CROSS. That ordinary little man, John Watson, ex-Army doctor, suddenly not ordinary at all. Looking innocent and a bit puzzled, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. As if he hadn't just shot a serial killer. Done it for _Sherlock_. The recognition as big a shock as the bullet through the window – and as life-changing, as it turns out.

Saying to Lestrade _Actually, d'you know what? Ignore me – Ignore - all of that. That's just – the – er – the **shock** talking._ True and false both at once, because if he hadn't been in shock before (and he hadn't) he was now. A good kind of shock, but still.

Lestrade, for a miracle, hadn't followed through, though Sherlock is fairly sure he knows. Hadn't arrested John for the killing. Which by then was a source of relief so intense Sherlock hardly knew how to cope with it. He can't be parted from this man, not even for a short time, much less aprison sentence.

This man who now, astonishingly, shares his bed more often than not.

He doesn't let himself dwell on how all that came about, because it still hurts. Another new thing for him, being hurt by memories. Never used to happen. But that night when he thought John was leaving for good, when he waited, sleepless, for John to come back and then thought he'd lost him anyway -

His mind still flinches away from that one.

He always said he was married to his work, but he seems to have become a bigamist. Or maybe it's a _ménage à trois_ , because John is so much a part of his work as well as his domestic life. Domesticity: another first. A cracked kind of domesticity, which might feature _a severed head in the fridge_ , but still.

Mrs Hudson keeps asking when they're going to have a nice civil partnership and offering to do the catering. She means well, but it sets his teeth on edge. It's not that he's _ashamed_ – well, not of being with another man, at any rate. That would be stupid, and he's not stupid. But the idea of standing up and telling the world about your relationship makes him go hot and cold all over.

What people would think. Never bothered him before. Shouldn't bother him now. But he imagines them imagining him and John in bed, and he feels sick. As if everyone's mind must be running some sort of ghastly gay porn movie, full of impossible positions and heaving buttocks and theatrical groaning.

Maybe he wouldn't mind it so much if that image were a bit closer to the truth. Instead of being almost the opposite of it.

If he'd thought about it at all, which he mostly didn't, he'd have assumed sex was a simple business. Mechanical and straightforward, in the way masturbation is. Not that he's even done much of _that_ , until recently, or needed to. He's lived so much in his mind that what his body wants has never been an issue.

Apart from the drugs, of course. And the nicotine patches, now he doesn't do drugs any more.

Sex with another man ought, _logically_ , to be simpler than sex with a woman, because you know your way around the anatomy and how it works. But when one of you hasn't had much sexual experience at all – as he hasn't – and the other one has never had sex with a man before – as John hadn't – it seems sex isn't so easy and uncomplicated after all.

It would be easier, he thinks, if he wasn't so afraid of doing something _wrong_ , something that will disgust John or hurt him or scare him away. He doesn't know how far or how fast it's safe to go. And they've never talked about it. Even thinking about _talking about it_ makes Sherlock break out in a cold sweat.

Being around someone as much as he's around John, so close physically so much of the time and yet _not_ managing to have much of a sex life, leaves Sherlock in a state of simmering frustration. He's often physically aroused, so much so that the friction of his underwear against his cock is almost unbearable and he has to retreat to the safety of the bathroom to jerk off before he can wrench his mind back to whatever case he's trying to crack. He doesn't know if this happens to John as well. Another thing they don't talk about. There seem to be quite a few of those. Just like being married, from what he hears.

 

There is John, who is essential to him. And then there is Lestrade.

 

He always used to know where he was with Lestrade, and now he doesn't. Which is driving him crazy in a different way from what's happening – or not happening – with John.

He's always been aware that Lestrade wanted him. It couldn't have been more obvious if Lestrade had _actually_ been wearing a notice round his neck saying SEX PLEASE SHERLOCK NOW.

It had amused Sherlock. Well, that sort of thing _is_ funny. Comic cliché, in fact: some poor fool in the throes of uncontrollable lust and with no hope of satisfying it. Nursing a massive erection, like one of those homunculi in an Aubrey Beardsley drawing, little men with pricks almost as big as they are, so painfully erect they can hardly walk around.

And that was Lestrade, for five years of Sherlock's life. A good DI – _the best of the Scotland Yarders_ , though that's not saying much – but also a walking hard-on. Specifically for Sherlock, who wasn't interested, but had fun teasing Lestrade about it and making him _desperate_.

He wonders now whether it meant something that he enjoyed Lestrade's desperation so much. Enjoyed taunting him with it, telling Lestrade he had no choice but to do what Sherlock wanted: _Because you **need** me._

Lestrade's voice, hoarse and broken: _Yes I do. God help me._

Sherlock thinks about that, sometimes, when he's jerking off in the bathroom. Hears the voice in his head, saying that, and comes, _hard_.

But then Lestrade had surprised him. Not just once, but repeatedly. And _surprise_ \- the opposite of boredom - is the hook for Sherlock. The thing that fixes him, wriggling but unable to escape. Fixed him with John, the moment he realized what John had done for him. Fixes him the way he is now, about Lestrade.

The first surprise: _the drugs bust_. Coming back laughing from running around the streets chasing that taxi with John, exhilarated to have proved his point (that limp of John's was psychosomatic) and also high on the sheer pleasure of being with this new, strange, strangely normal companion. Giggling like idiots in the hall of 221b, breathless with it, joyous, triumphant.

And then Mrs Hudson, agitated: _Sherlock, what have you done? Upstairs -_

Rushing up the stairs and into the flat. To find Lestrade cockily ensconced in Sherlock's armchair, looking _very_ much at home and quite exceptionally pleased with himself.

Not desperate at all.

And police officers all over the flat, prying into _everything_.

Exploding at Lestrade: _You can't just break into my flat!_ Ignoring all the times he'd broken into _Lestrade_ 's because he felt like it, or because he was bored and wanted to play.

Lestrade, unruffled: _Well you can't withhold evidence! And I didn't break into your flat._

 _Well what do you call this then?_

And Lestrade, gleeful, _shining_ with mischief and power: _It's a drugs bust!_

Breaking every rule in the book and not caring. Exerting his authority, and Sherlock suddenly powerless to resist it, unable to do more than flail around:

 _Oh – what – so – so – so you set up a pretend drugs bust to **bully** me?_

And Lestrade, softly but menacingly, still lording it over him, moving in closer: _It stops being pretend if they **find** anything._ Ignoring Sherlock's angry protests that he was clean, saying _Is your **flat**? **All** of it?_ As if he knows. As if he can see right through him.

Sherlock remembers all that, too, sometimes, in the moments before his solitary climax.

 

The second surprise: having sex with Lestrade. Which he hadn't intended to happen but things got ... _out of hand_. As you might say.

Astonishing to find himself confiding in Lestrade about John, after that night Sherlock and John had ended up sharing a bed but nothing happened. Really unexpected, the whole thing. And then he'd felt exposed and vulnerable and wanted to put things back the way they usually were, Sherlock with the upper hand and Lestrade the panting, lust-befuddled idiot. So he'd flirted with Lestrade, given him the latest in a _very_ long line of uncomfortable erections and then settled down to have some fun playing with him, and it. Knowing Lestrade wouldn't take advantage, because he never does.

It hadn't quite worked out that way. After the row with John walking in on them fooling around, Lestrade had briefly and suddenly become that other man, the one Sherlock's powerless to resist, barking orders in a voice you don't say no to. And Sherlock – to his own surprise and possibly Lestrade's – had done as he was told. Locked the door, got back on the sofa and finished what he started, with Lestrade's hands clamped around his as Sherlock pulled and squeezed Lestrade's cock to a rapid and apparently very satisfying climax.

And then it had been Sherlock's turn.

Lestrade's hands, the fingers shorter than his own but thicker, too, untying the blue silk dressing-gown and slipping it off Sherlock, exploring under Sherlock's clothes and making him gasp with pleasure and surprise. The unexpected force and suddenness of his own erection, aching for Lestrade's touch. Lestrade going slow, teasing Sherlock, making him ask for it, making him – he _wouldn_ 't use the word _beg_ , even if in the end he _had_ said please. Said it more than once.

Lestrade moving down to put his mouth where his hands were already making Sherlock dizzy with longing and pleasure and -

 _Oh_.

Nothing but _Oh_.

Hearing the exclamation as if someone else was making it. And then no words, no breath for words, just gasps and finally sharp cries as he came, extravagantly, from Lestrade's tongue teasing that sensitive place, Lestrade's mouth pulling and sucking at him, incredible, nothing like this _ever_.

And nothing like it since because -

Sherlock refuses to think about that, on the grounds that there's no point.

This stuff obviously isn't as easy as it looks.

 

The third surprise: the Maurice Hall case and Lestrade telling him to _go away_ , and seeming to mean it. A thing that had never happened before. And not even _responding_ when Sherlock jumped him and ripped his clothes off and took Lestrade's cock in his hand. Bewildering. So that Sherlock had had to resort to taking Lestrade's cock in his mouth, trying to remember what Lestrade had done to him and how it had felt. And it had seemed to work. Very well, in fact.

But there was a case to solve, and Lestrade right in the middle of it, no time to waste and no time to think about what had just happened, or why he'd _really_ done it. Whether he'd jumped Lestrade and had sex with him to stop Lestrade _shutting him out_ , a thing Lestrade had never done before.

And then the thing that nearly ended it all: how he'd nearly got Lestrade _killed_ by that maniac with the gun. Just because Sherlock always has to be the one who solves the case and makes things happen, the careless, arrogant bloody _fool_ -

Stupid.

 

So he's out, now, walking fast in the chill spring night, trying to cool his feverish brain before he goes back to 221b. _Driven_ out because if Maurice Hall said _one_ more stupid thing Sherlock was going to strangle him with Hall's _minor public school tie_. And because he can't forgive himself for what he almost did to Lestrade, and he wants to make it up to him the only way he knows how, and he knows there'd be hell to pay with John if he did, and indeed that there _will_ be hell to pay with John if John ever finds out about the other night and Sherlock having sex with Lestrade again.

He thinks Clara may have noticed something, too, and he wouldn't put it past her to tell John. Clever women are a menace, he's always thought so. This one more than most. Why John has to keep up the acquaintance when his _sister_ couldn't _wait_ to get away from the woman, Sherlock really doesn't know.

Reluctantly, he goes back to 221b to find Lestrade half-asleep in the armchair and the other three engaged in boring for England about that blasted French film. And Lestrade sees that he's troubled, and Sherlock blurts out like the fool he is, now, _I put you in danger_. And, oh god, he thinks Lestrade is actually _flirting_ with him. Which he can't cope with at all.

His mouth is dry and his heart is hammering as Lestrade laughs up at him saying _Watch it, Sherlock, you'll have me thinking you **care** in a minute._ And he's that close to saying _I do_. Staring at Lestrade, feeling as if the floor has given way underneath him and he's falling down a well, waiting for the bone-jarring crunch as he hits the bottom.

Then the other three burst out laughing about something, it's like a slap in the face that sobers him up and he turns away to the window, sweating at how close he came to saying something irrevocable.

Lestrade saying goodbye and Sherlock wanting to kiss him, wanting it so much he feels as if he's the one wearing a notice now. DYING TO KISS LESTRADE. And _something_ must be written all over him, because as Lestrade looks up from the street below John kisses Sherlock, hard, possessively, right in front of the window where there's no way Lestrade's not going to see it. Sherlock responds, can't help it, he's aching so much as it is. But it leaves him feeling confused, in a way being kissed – even in public – by the person you're supposed to be with really shouldn't. The person he _wants_ to be with. He knows that.

Whatever it is that he's feeling about Lestrade is refusing to go away, though. And Lestrade's round there quite a lot, sometimes by himself and sometimes with bloody Maurice, who seems to have clicked with John and Clara. (Clara is also _far_ too much in evidence for Sherlock's liking.)

And every time Sherlock sees him it's the same. Wanting to say something, do something, and terrified that he will.

He doesn't believe in reincarnation, but if he did he'd be wondering what he did wrong in a previous life. He's not sure he can stand much more of this.

He's going to have to do something about it. Just doesn't know what it is yet.


	3. Clara: Give Or Take A Night Or Two.

There are things you expect to carry away from a failed relationship with an alcoholic and things you don't.

Amongst the things you do: broken crockery, broken furniture, bruises, the memory of humiliations piled high till you think they can't get any higher but there's always just one more. And finally, your day in court, dissolving the civil partnership. _First one to get divorced_ , her mind jeers, _the first of all the CP gang._

Amongst the things you don't: an entirely unlikely friendship with your ex-brother-in-law.

Clara had never expected to like John Watson, the way Harry talked about her brother when she and Clara had first got together. In Harry's account, John had sounded pompous, stuffy, deadly dull and almost certainly a homophobe into the bargain. That was in the early days of the relationship, when Clara couldn't see past the amazing, intoxicating sex they were having. Before she realized how much of Harry's survival mechanism depended on making sure the people she needed never _compared notes_. Making sure they disliked and distrusted each other, because if they didn't, God knows, they might gang up on Harry and decide it was time she did something about the drinking. The days before Clara finally had to admit to herself what she'd have been screaming for months now at any friend of hers similarly placed: that Harry's primary relationship was with _the_ _drink_. And that it always would be.

At which point the only sane thing to do is start working out how you're going to get out of this alive. _Alive_ , meaning, not wrecked to the point where you might as well be dead. She'd come closer to that than she liked to think, but thank Christ she was out of it now, and Harry was out of her life.

John, surprisingly to both of them, was still _in_ it.

He wasn't the stuffed shirt Harry had painted him as. She'd known _that_ much even before he went to Afghanistan. There was a sense of humour there, for a start, that mad silly giggle she found oddly endearing. And he'd been kind to her when things were getting really bad with Harry. Though there'd been a ferocity at the back of his kindness that suggested what he _really_ wanted to do was give Harry a black eye to match Clara's. But he'd talked more sensibly and knowledgeably than she would have expected about support groups and resources, and hadn't lectured Clara or made her feel stupid or worthless for not being able to leave Harry then. Not that she needed anyone else to make her feel those things with Harry around.

He'd still been in Afghanistan when the split finally happened, but he'd sent her a message saying he knew it was the right decision, must have been a tough one to make, well done to her for making it, and that he'd like to stay in touch if she'd be on for that. Which was really surprising and had made her cry, but not in a bad way.

Afghanistan had changed him, though, or _something_ had. The limp, obviously, but then the limp had suddenly vanished. And then there was whatever was going on with that mad ex-junkie he was living with now in Baker Street.

She should have known there was something up, that night in the pub, the way he blushed when she asked about his new flatmate. The way he jumped when he got four text messages in a row and then made an excuse about not feeling well and went out looking like death warmed up. If Clara hadn't been at her wits' end trying to deal with yet another of bloody Magnus's cock-ups she'd have grilled John then and there, but even with most of her mind on _missing affidavits_ and _court first thing in the morning_ , she could see John was acting oddly.

She'd thought he was just sickening for something. Didn't know what it was until she met Sherlock Holmes.

Clara doesn't trust Sherlock as far as she could throw him. Which, given their height difference, probably isn't very far at all.

She remembers what one of Harry's old drinking buddies used to say, in the days when he was on the wagon: _People will do anything rather than change. They will_ _ **literally**_ _die rather than change._ He'd seen just that, in the last-ditch drying-out clinic. People actually dying, then dead, because they wouldn't give up the drink, or the drugs, or both.

Sherlock may be clean at the moment, especially given how nice his life must be with John running around devotedly after him all the time, but she knows better than to think that will last if things get tough again. And she doesn't want to watch John go through what she had to go through with Harry.

Or whatever spectacularly twisted version of that Sherlock would come up with, given that he's nine-tenths barking mad in the first place.

John had made some pretty flimsy excuses not to meet up, back at the very beginning of this thing with Sherlock. Of course she'd known why, the minute she saw them together. You couldn't _not_ know, looking at John. It was harder to tell from Sherlock's expression, but still there was something so _established_ about the two of them it was unmistakable. She'd cornered John that evening, seizing her moment when Sherlock was in the loo, and asked him if he was _all right_ , if he was _happy_. Sounding so fierce she'd surprised herself. She'd never expected to get _fond_ of Harry's ultra-normal brother.

Never expected to find said brother in a gay relationship either.

John had insisted he was _fine_ , that everything was _wonderful_ , he'd _never_ been happier, apologised for not having told her before, said how much she would like Sherlock when she got to know him.

Clara had her own opinions about that but she kept them to herself. No point in doing anything else till the scales fall from the eyes of the newly besotted, she knows _that_ well enough. She's been there before.

She doesn't like the look of what's going on with Sherlock and that policeman, though. Doesn't like it one little tiny bit.

John had mentioned Lestrade with a kind of wince that made Clara suspicious even _before_ she'd met him. She doesn't know what went on with Lestrade and Sherlock before Sherlock and John got together but it's pretty clear _something_ did. Hadn't formed much of an impression of Lestrade, that day at his flat. Well, you _don't_ , really, not when you're seriously stuck into a piece of work the way they'd all been with that blackmail case, chasing down leads, making calls, desperately searching for clues. She'd been vaguely aware of a rather scruffy man wandering around half-asleep in his pyjamas and eating leftovers and that was about it. It wasn't till a couple of nights later, at John's flat, that she'd got a proper look at Lestrade.

When she _had_ finally done that, two things had become glaringly obvious. One: Lestrade scrubbed up well and was a lot better-looking than she'd thought. Two: the way Lestrade kept looking at Sherlock, and the way Sherlock looked at _him_ when he thought nobody was watching, meant trouble coming.

So she isn't surprised to get a text a couple of days later from John, asking if they could meet. Just puts some extra tissues and Paracetamol in her bag before heading out, figuring she'll probably be needing both at some point during the evening, and braces herself for whatever revelations lie ahead.

To her surprise, John doesn't mention Lestrade at all. And it really isn't quite clear what he wanted to talk about, or why he wanted to meet at all. He just sits there drawing patterns with spilt beer till Clara wants to smack his hand and tell him to get on with it, tell her what's bugging him.

And _then_ he seems to want her to talk about the start of her and Harry, a thing he's _never_ done before and which is really not like him. And which Clara finds unsurprisingly hard to do.

But she tries, because she's fond of him, and there's not going to be much else she can do to help, let's face it, if Sherlock and Lestrade _are_ having an affair, or have had a fling. This one is more than a fling, though, from the looks of it. She remembers the formula one of her American friends came up with about sex outside the relationship: _Once is a charm check, twice is a near occasion of sin, and lunch is out of the question._ If Sherlock and Lestrade aren't already at the _lunch_ stage, Clara will eat her QC grandfather's wig, wig box and all.

Christ Almighty, John seems to be asking about the _sex_ now. What sex was like with Harry at the start of the relationship. He can't _really_ be asking that, can he? She'd never have figured him for the creepy sort of straight bloke who gets off on hearing about What Lesbians Do In Bed, even before he got into a gay relationship. And she doesn't _think_ that is what this is about. But why _anyone_ would ask what sex was like when one of the people involved was his own _sister_... Shit, this is weird. Beyond weird, really.

There are things Clara could say at this point about the extreme _un_ wisdom of hanging around with mad ex-junkie geniuses, and the brain rot and total personality collapse that is bound to result, but she doesn't. Just looks a bit quizzically at John, who goes beetroot red and mumbles "Sorry".

"What _is_ it, John?" she says, trying not to sound as impatient as she feels. "What's wrong?"

But he can't tell her, and she doesn't want to push.

This conversation, whatever it is, _keeps_ not quite happening over the next few weeks, and Clara starts to wonder whether Sherlock is slipping back into his old ways again. He seems furtive, overexcited, perpetually on edge. And John, while still insisting he's never been happier, is looking increasingly ragged.

She tries to ask tactfully if Sherlock is still clean, but it's hard to find the right words. Hard enough even to ask where he _is_ or what he's up to without sounding suspicious.

The latest thing is that Sherlock seems to be spending a lot of evenings and indeed nights at the mortuary. Something to do with an experiment. Says he'll be late back and tells John not to wait up.

Experiments going on into the middle of the night? At the mortuary? Anyone else, and Clara would have said that was _definitely_ a cover story for playing away from home. With _that_ mad bastard, she supposes it might just be true.


	4. Lestrade: The Writing's On The Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **In Transition**

For the last few days he's had that feeling again. You always know. Someone following him. Gives him the creeps. Mrs Jennings downstairs said she'd seen a suspicious-looking man in the alley by the bins on Monday. He called it in, told them to make a note of it at the local police station. No good being careless about these things.

He's jumpier since the Hughes case, he knows that. Doesn't like it, but no point pretending it's not happening. No point beating yourself up about it either. It'll pass eventually. He's had this sort of thing before after cases where he's come a bit too bloody close to the pearly gates. Takes a while to wear off. Just one of those things.

He knows it's worse right now because he's tired. Another case refusing to break, nasty double murder in Paddington, so he's not sleeping well. So strung out tonight he even cracked and tried to ring Maurice, see if he could go round there and crash, maybe they'd have sex, Christ knows he could do with something to take the edge off. Just got the answering machine though.

Maurice is probably doing as he was told, out there looking for somebody new. Or he's found someone already and is too busy shagging to answer the phone. Thinking that doesn't do anything to improve Lestrade's mood.

If it hadn't been for bloody _Sherlock_ , maybe he and Maurice could have made a go of it. Maurice is a decent bloke, even if he is in the City. Affectionate, too. Good in bed. Nice-looking. Not the sharpest knife in the box, but you can't have everything, and nobody needs more than one mad genius in their life. If that.

He is _not_ going to put that sodding Schumann CD on again.

Well past the age when it's OK to wallow in sad music and get maudlin about _the man that got away._

If he wanted to do that he'd just go the whole hog and put on Judy bleeding Garland. Or Rufus Wainwright, whose weird voice grows on you more than you might expect. Another Maurice thing, that. _Stop it, Lestrade_.

Five years. Five years of stupid _pointless_ hanging around for whatever scraps Sherlock fucking Holmes deigned to throw his way. Five years of teasing and mind-fucking and being made to feel a complete _prat_ around Sherlock, and _everybody_ knowing, or it felt that way at least. Not one bloody shred of dignity left, except that he's never said the word. _One_ half-decent legover on the blasted sofa in 221b Baker Street and one frankly weird encounter in his own bedroom, being jumped by Sherlock for reasons he _still_ doesn't understand. Not much to show for it after all this time.

Christ, he's had enough of this. He's thought that before, sure, but _this_ time -

Oh Jesus _fuck_. A ring at the door. Only one person that'll be, at one in the morning, and he doesn't usually bother to ring.

His timing really is _exceptionally_ off tonight.

"What the fuck is it _now_?" Lestrade snaps, opening the door.

"And good evening to you too, Inspector," Sherlock says, coming in without waiting to be asked.

The words are typical enough, but the tone's a bit less cocky than usual, Lestrade notices. That, and the fact he rang the doorbell rather than just breaking in, suggests there's something up. Not sure what it is though.

"Sherlock, I'm very tired and I don't recall asking you to come in," Lestrade says.

Sherlock would usually make some crack about Lestrade's lack of manners here, but he doesn't. Odd. He looks a bit – well, _uncertain_. Which is not like him at all.

Doesn't actually _apologise_ or anything, obviously. No need to look out of the window for night-flying pigs just yet.

"What do you want?" Lestrade says impatiently. The quicker they get this over with, whatever it is, the quicker Lestrade can get to bed and at least _try_ to sleep. Should have been there by now if he hadn't been moping around about Maurice.

But then Sherlock would just have caught him in his pyjamas, or in _bed_ , and that doesn't seem like such a great idea.

Funny how the things you fantasise about often _don't_ , in real life.

Sherlock's not saying anything. He's pacing around Lestrade's sitting-room looking like he's carrying on some mad conversation in his head. Probably is.

"If you just want to _exercise_ , could you fuck off and do that somewhere else? I'm going to bed," Lestrade says irritably.

Mentioning _bed_ seems to have an effect, because the next thing Lestrade knows he's up against the wall being kissed by Sherlock, a hard uncomfortable awkward kiss.

" _Ow_ ," Lestrade says, pushing Sherlock away and licking the blood from his own lip. "You _bit_ me, you fucker!"

Sherlock comes back for another go, and Lestrade finds himself fighting quite hard to get away. Not how that scene played out any of the times he's imagined it, but he's _really_ not feeling like this right now.

Just his luck. A _bulletproof_ wank fantasy crosses over into real life and Lestrade's not in the mood. Brilliant.

"Sherlock, what are you _playing_ at?"

Stupid question really. But what _is_ he?

Sherlock suddenly starts pacing again and talking nineteen to the dozen, words spilling out and tumbling over each other so fast Lestrade can't get _half_ of it. Bits of it he grabs as they go past include _keep thinking about you, nothing happening, all the time, no good_ and _frustrated_.

If Lestrade's just been told what he thinks he's been told, he _really_ shouldn't have been.

Another bloody fantasy coming home to roost. And _this_ one was seriously fucking embarrassing even _as_ a fantasy. The one where sex with JW is really crap and Sherlock is _driven into the arms of the only man who has ever -_

This can't _really_ be happening, can it?

He looks at Sherlock, who is looking pretty wild. Hair dishevelled, lips red and swollen, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated. Yup, all present and correct. And Lestrade's fairly sure that pressure against his stomach when Sherlock kissed him wasn't just his belt buckle.

A bit of the jigsaw suddenly falls into place.

"Have you been _stalking_ me?" Lestrade demands.

Sherlock now looks _guilty_ as well as randy, upset and confused. It's quite a complicated look.

"Not _stalking_ ," he says. "Wanted to _see_ you. Just – I kept -"

Lost his nerve. Incredible. Explains a lot though.

"How many nights has this _been?"_

"All this week," Sherlock says. "Maybe a bit longer."

Hanging around by the bins. Jesus.

"Why are you doing this?" Lestrade says.

Sherlock shoots him a look that is 100% _How can you be so fucking stupid?_ , but doesn't say anything.

Lestrade sighs. He can see he's going to have to do all the work here. Department of No Surprise.

"Does he know you're here?" he asks.

Sherlock winces. Shakes his head.

"Does he know about – the other time?" Lestrade persists, struggling a bit to find a good form of words for _that time you sucked me off for no apparent reason_.

"No," Sherlock says, sounding pretty miserable.

"Are you going to tell him?"

" _Fuck_ no!" Sherlock says, sounding alarmed now. " _You're_ not going to, are you?"

For whatever reason, that _really_ gets Lestrade's goat.

"Serve you right if I did," he snaps. "Actually I can't be bothered, so you're in luck."

Sherlock looks relieved. Never _has_ had any sense of morality, only a sense of consequences, and even _that_ is pretty fucking intermittent. Drops in and out like a faulty broadband connection, and it looks like the server's crashed at the moment.

" _Why_ do I keep thinking about you?" Sherlock says petulantly.

"How the fuck should _I_ know? It's not my fault," Lestrade says.

"Been like this since that thing with the gunman," Sherlock whinges.

"Oh, you mean _that thing_ where you almost got me killed?" Lestrade flares up. "Well, yes, for some people that _might_ get them thinking a bit. Not _you_ , though, surely?"

"I thought maybe if we had sex again I could get it out of my system," Sherlock says, as if patiently explaining some terribly obvious piece of reasoning.

Lestrade is briefly lost for words. _Only Sherlock_ would think it's just fine to come out with something like that.

A very small part of his mind notices that once upon a time he'd have taken Sherlock up on that suggestion and dealt with the fallout afterwards. Now he doesn't want to. Which must be progress, of a sort. But there isn't time to think about that now. Or to ask himself how much of Sherlock's attraction, for him, was _always_ that he was the one Lestrade couldn't have. Think about that later.

Sherlock's looking at him expectantly, waiting for Lestrade to jump to it and give him what he came for.

"You _do_ know I'm not going to do this, don't you?" Lestrade says. Nonsensical thing to say when the answer is so obviously _no_ , but it seems to need saying.

Sherlock looks puzzled. But then he never _does_ understand why people don't just give him what he wants. And if he goes on pushing long enough they usually do, in the end. As Lestrade is uneasily aware.

Sherlock moves in on him again, less forcefully this time but more insinuatingly. Slides his arms round Lestrade's waist and starts breathing heavily in Lestrade's hair. Distracting.

Lestrade disengages himself with some difficulty and retreats to the armchair – _not risking the sofa thank you very much._

"Did you hear me?" he says, wishing his voice didn't give him away so obviously. "I said I'm not going to do this."

Sherlock apparently hears this as some kind of invitation, because his next move is to try to sit on Lestrade's lap. There's a bit of a struggle and Sherlock ends up on the floor. Think he banged his head on the way down, going to have a nasty bruise there later. But he's not put off. _Take more than that_ , Lestrade thinks, gripping Sherlock's wrist and trying to pull his hand away from its current location between Lestrade's thighs.

" _Why_ don't you want to?" Sherlock demands, baffled. "You _always_ want to."

Lestrade's too busy trying to breathe to answer that one for a bit. And it's not easy to maintain he _doesn't want to_ when he's already sporting quite an erection. As Sherlock can't really fail to notice.

"I said _I'm not going to_ ," Lestrade manages eventually.

Sherlock seems tempted to accuse him of quibbling about details, but doesn't actually go there.

"Why not?" he says again.

A short question with a long answer, as it turns out.

Lestrade, slightly to his surprise, is up out of the armchair and shouting at Sherlock, who is still on the floor.

"Because I have had _enough_. I have _had_ it with you, Sherlock. I'm not some – some _blow-up doll_ you can come round and shag because you're having a crap time in bed with bloody Watson. I'm not your _stopgap_. I'm not your fucking _agony aunt_ , or your _nanny_ , or your _keeper_ , or your _sex therapist_. And I am _sick to death_ of you thinking you can _use_ me for whatever you feel like and then just bugger off back to your boyfriend or whatever else is going on in your life. I deserve _better_ than this. I've wasted _enough_ of my life hanging around _waiting_ for you to treat me like a human being and I am not going to do it _any more_ because you are NOT WORTH IT. Now fuck off back to Baker Street and for Christ's sake _grow up."_

Sherlock looks a bit shaken by this, as well he might. But not for long, being Sherlock.

"You're jealous of him," he says, as if trying the flavour of something he hasn't eaten before.

Which really isn't the point, though Lestrade can't deny it's been a factor.

He sits down again, feeling a bit shaky after all that shouting.

"I can't stand the guy," he says. "But you're not doing right by him."

Sherlock looks like he _does_ know this really, but doesn't want to admit it.

Lestrade breathes deeply for a bit. Then he says "You want to be with him, right?"

Sherlock nods. Doesn't say anything.

"So why do you think it's OK to lie to him?" Lestrade asks.

"He'd be cross if I told him," Sherlock says.

"Your emotional inadequacy _really_ beggars belief sometimes," Lestrade says, feeling himself getting angry again. " _Cross_ is when another kid in the class nicks your pencil-case. Not when your partner goes off and shags someone else."

He wonders what he was ever doing with this hopeless case of arrested development. However brilliant and gorgeous Sherlock is – and he is both these things, no question – emotionally he seems to have got stuck quite a few years below the age of consent. Even these days.

Time to leave this fucked-up boy, Lestrade. See if you can find a grown man to play with instead.

"Look, Sherlock," he says wearily, "if you and John are having problems you do what grown-ups do. You talk about it. You try to work things out. You tell him what you want. You ask him what _he_ wants. You do _not_ come here and expect _me_ to sort it out for you, or to shag you and take your mind off it."

Sherlock has been squirming with embarrassment for most of this. Looking like he's trying to fold himself up and slide under the sofa. Perks up a bit at the mention of shagging.

"But I _liked_ having sex with you," he says, as if that somehow makes everything else Lestrade just said irrelevant.

"Sherlock, you're _with someone else_. And the last time I looked, that was _not_ an open relationship."

Sherlock looks mutinous but he doesn't contradict Lestrade about that.

"You never _used_ to say no," he complains. "Is it because of Maurice?"

Lestrade has seldom felt so close to hitting him, but he manages not to.

"You _can't_ keep coming round here and jumping me every time something goes wrong with John," he says. "Or every time you're bored because he's gone out for the evening."

Sherlock looks like he still doesn't really see why not.

"But it's _good_ with you and it's not good with him," he says, as if that changes everything. "And there are things we haven't done yet I thought we could do -"

"Go _home_ , Sherlock," Lestrade says. "Go home NOW."

He's surprised himself at how fierce he sounds.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, makes one final pass before he gives up, and gets another nasty crack from the edge of the bookcase when Lestrade shoves him violently away. There's blood on the carpet, and Lestrade is contrite, though firm about the fact that Sherlock is still leaving as soon as he's patched him up. Which doesn't take long.

"Don't I get a goodbye kiss?" Sherlock asks.

"No." Lestrade doesn't crack a smile. "This hasn't been good for either of us, Sherlock. Time for me to move on. Time for you, too."

And Sherlock goes.

Leaving Lestrade mopping thoughtfully at the blood on the carpet, and occasionally running his tongue over the sore place on his lip where Sherlock bit him.

What was that proverb again? _Be careful what you wish for, because you may get it_.

If his fantasies are going to make a habit of coming back to haunt him like this, he'll have to be a bloody sight more careful what he fantasises about from now on.


	5. Sherlock: A Little Bit Stranger

Sherlock lets himself into the flat as quietly as he can, hoping John's asleep by now. It was after three when he finally left Lestrade, and it's taken a while to get back here. No taxis around for once, must be a cabbies' convention or something, he thinks light-headedly. Maybe they've all decided to become serial killers instead.

Now if he can just tiptoe up the stairs to his room and get some sleep maybe he'll be able to think more clearly in the morning. Later in the morning. There's no sound in the flat and it's looking as if he might just get away with it -

But his luck really _isn't_ in tonight, because John's not asleep at all. Sitting there looking grim.

 _Bother_.

This is going to be tricky, and Sherlock feels he hasn't _quite_ got his wits about him, not to the extent he'll need them for this. He's still aroused and frustrated as hell, which is distracting enough, and his mind is full of all the quite unnecessarily unpleasant things Lestrade shouted at him. And his head hurts a bit where he banged it, which isn't helping anything.

"It's 4 a.m.," John says.

Can't argue with that. Sherlock's watch says the same.

He's not sure what to say, so he doesn't say anything.

"I rang the mortuary," John says. "I was worried about you. They said you weren't there, hadn't been there for weeks. _What the fuck have you been doing?"_

He really _should_ have had a cover story ready for this moment, but he hadn't thought he'd need one. Stupid of him.

Can't just go on standing there saying nothing.

But he doesn't have to, because John grabs him and pushes him against the wall. Must be Sherlock's turn for it, after what he did to Lestrade. Hurts a bit more than he'd expected though.

John, looking very fierce, yanks Sherlock's coat off him, throwing it on the floor.

Sherlock feels slightly apprehensive because there's obviously going to be a row and he doesn't like rows. On the other hand, he quite likes this new masterful John. In different circumstances, this sort of thing could be -

" _Sherlock!"_ John sounds as if he's been trying to get his attention for a while, and he may have been. Sherlock's so short on sleep after the last few nights that he's almost dropping off.

"Sorry," he says.

" _Jesus_ ," John says, sounding disgusted. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"You're the doctor, you tell _me_ ," Sherlock says, knowing even as he says it that this is a bad idea.

This time he does get a slap. Which shouldn't be a surprise, all things considered, but still somehow is.

"I am NOT having this," John roars, shoving him back against the wall. _Ow._ Hit the same spot again.

Never heard him like this before. Interesting. The whole scenario has distinct -

Another slap. Harder than the first one.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, what have you taken?" John sounds desperate.

And the penny finally drops.

The uncharacteristic slaps aren't uncharacteristic after all. The good doctor thinks Sherlock is _on_ something and is trying to get him to sober up.

Doing it rather forcefully, but with John's family history you can't be surprised at _that_.

Disappointing, though. For a moment there he'd thought -

" _ **Tell me!**_ " John shouts.

" _Nothing_ ," Sherlock says. "Ihaven't – I'm _clean_ , John, you _know_ I am -"

Shit. This could actually be _more_ of a problem than if he just told John what he'd tried to do with Lestrade.

Not much to choose between the two, really. Either way he is in _very_ big trouble now.

"Sherlock, I swear, if I find you've been using again we are _finished_. Finished. Do you understand me?"

John isn't shouting any more but Sherlock knows he's not kidding about this one. John's eyes are hard and he's shaking with anger.

"I _promise_ ," Sherlock says, "John, I'm not, I swear, I haven't, not since – I wasn't any more, even when we met, I _wouldn't_ now."

He hopes it's true. He _thinks_ he wouldn't, now.

But he knows there are other promises, unspoken ones, that he's already broken. And tried to break all over again tonight. No thanks to him that he didn't succeed.

He starts rolling up his sleeves to show John what he says is true, _look, no track marks_.

Realizes too late that his wrist is sporting a tell-tale set of bruises from where Lestrade had gripped him, trying to pull his hand away as Sherlock groped Lestrade's crotch.

John's staring at the bruises as if he can identify the fingerprints. Perhaps he can, he's getting better at the forensics side of things, hanging around with Sherlock.

"So _that's_ it," John says. He sounds weary and disgusted.

Sherlock can't think of a single thing to say that isn't just going to make things worse, so he doesn't say anything.

"I'm going to bed," John says. "I've got work tomorrow and I don't see why the NHS should bear the brunt of your bad behaviour. Contrary to what you may assume, the world does _not_ revolve around you. And according to my calculations you are _at least_ fourteen years too old to be carrying on in this – this _adolescent_ manner."

The pomposity would almost be funny, except it isn't. John looks _grey_ in the face, the way he hasn't for ages. And Sherlock can hear what happens next perfectly. Footsteps going into the bathroom, and the sounds of someone being violently sick. It goes on a long time. You wouldn't think anyone had that much _in_ them to vomit up.

He doesn't dare to follow John, not even to ask if he's all right. He's feeling pretty scared now. It looks as if this is it: he's finally done it. That _not good_ thing that's going to end them. And he has no idea what he can do about it.

There are all the other nights to account for, for a start. And he can hardly tell John how he spent them.

But whatever he says to John, or doesn't say, he knows it won't make any difference. He always knew this couldn't last. Why would anyone in their right mind want to stay with _him_ , after all?

John is going to leave him, and he'll end up with nothing, and he _can't_ go back to that, not now. It was all right before John came along. He was fine being on his own. But he's not sure he can bear it if John goes.

And John is definitely going. Pretty clear he's sick of Sherlock now. Literally.

A phrase from years ago echoes in his head, American voice, can't remember whose it is or what he'd done to prompt it:

 _Boy, when you play with the rope you sure make a few knots!_

He's made a few tonight.

He's not sure he's going to get any sleep, but he'd probably better go and lie down at least, see if he can rest a bit.

Tomorrow looks like being the kind of day where you need all the strength you can muster.

He's not looking forward to that _at all_.


	6. John: Ghost Of A Chance

He wakes up feeling as if he's been in a fight. His throat is sore – he remembers being sick, then scrubbing his teeth and gargling with the stinging mouthwash again and again. He aches all over – must have been tensing in his sleep, nightmares probably. There's a heaviness, too, a sense of something weighing him down.

John opens his eyes and discovers that the heaviness is literally true. Sherlock's sitting on the bed and it's his weight John can feel. He's holding a mug of something steaming which is almost certainly going to be a health hazard.

"I made you some tea," Sherlock says. Sounding very tentative, for him.

John takes the mug and puts it on the chest of drawers by the bed. If Sherlock thinks a mug of tea is going to change anything he's got another think coming. Even if it _is_ quite possibly the first time in Sherlock's life that he's ever made anyone else tea. Or himself. Another good reason not to drink it, God knows what it'll taste like...

Surprisingly like tea, actually. Maybe Mrs Hudson made it.

"Thank you," John says. Because he _was_ properly brought up, after all.

There's a long silence.

Sherlock hasn't shaved and appears to be wearing yesterday's clothes. Looks as if he's _slept_ in them, or maybe he's just been rolling around in bed a lot. John's not sure why that image comes to mind, and dismisses it as unhelpful. Sherlock looks miserable and scared as well as uncharacteristically scruffy. And seeing him like that makes John's heart contract.

But it's no good getting sentimental about this. Facts to be faced here, and _he's_ got to face them even if Sherlock won't.

"Sherlock, I don't know if I can do this any more," he says. "I can't be with someone I know I can't trust."

Clara's voice echoes in his head: _The one thing we know for sure about addicts is that they_ _ **lie.**_

The lying's started already. And Sherlock would clearly have gone on lying about where he'd been these last few nights if John hadn't rung the mortuary and found him out.

John wonders unhappily whether Sherlock _meant_ to show him those bruises. He remembers how Harry used to flaunt the damage she was doing to herself. Flaunted her infidelities to Clara, too.

Sherlock still hasn't said how he _got_ them, but it's not hard to guess.

Images of rough sex scroll like a bad porn film behind John's eyes. That, or some violent drug-fuelled argument. It almost doesn't matter which it was.

Almost, but not quite.

The silence goes on hanging in the room. Another heavy thing.

They never said they'd be monogamous.

Never said they wouldn't, either.

Didn't talk about it at all. Should have, but how do you start? Especially with Sherlock, whose capacity for emotional engagement is practically nil.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" John asks.

Sherlock looks even more scared than before. Is obviously wrestling with the temptation to deny the whole thing, or possibly just scrabbling around for a plausible explanation. Eventually he says "I had a sort of fight with Lestrade."

" _Lestrade_ ," John says. Might have known it. His scalp crawls and his skin feels tight, rage pushing up from somewhere deep inside him so he can hardly breathe.

"It was my fault," Sherlock says.

That _has_ to be a first. It's so unexpected that John doesn't quite know what to say next. Settles for "What were you fighting about?"

"I -" Sherlock swallows hard and tries again. "I wanted him to do something he didn't want to do."

Now John's _completely_ confused, because there's no way that can mean what it seems to mean. He's seen the way Lestrade looks at Sherlock as well as the way Sherlock looks at Lestrade, and he can't imagine Lestrade saying no to sex with Sherlock.

But apparently that _is_ what this is about.

Because Sherlock is now mumbling something barely audible and verging on incoherent about _their_ relationship that makes John go hot and cold all over. Saying _he_ wants sex _all the time_ now and _John never_ seems interested and _he's_ been going crazy and he thought maybe being with Lestrade would _help_ and _Lestrade_ turned him down and told him to _fuck off back to Baker Street and try to grow up for Christ's sake_.

At least that's what John _thinks_ he said.

All the air seems to have gone out of John's body, as if someone's just punched him in the gut. There's a ringing in his ears and he thinks he might be about to pass out. He leans forward, putting his knees up so he can rest his head on them.

Feels a hand placed, very tentatively, on the back of his neck.

"Get off," he mutters fiercely.

The hand goes away again.

"I _knew_ you'd be cross," Sherlock says, aggrieved. "Didn't _want_ to tell you. _He_ said I'd got to."

" _Lestrade_ did?"

"Said I wasn't doing right by you."

Great. So now John's supposed to be grateful to Lestrade? Just when you think things can't get any worse, they do.

"You told Lestrade about -" He can't even finish that sentence. "Jesus, Sherlock, do you have _no_ fucking sense of boundaries _at all?"_

Stupid question, John. You know very well he hasn't.

And isn't _that_ going to be fun next time they meet at a crime scene? Lestrade knowing Sherlock and John have a rubbish sex life and it's all John's fault. Perfect.

Sherlock starts rocking to and fro, arms crossed, hands gripping his shoulders. Last time John saw anyone do this was some poor kid in an orphanage. Classic institutionalized behaviour. Self-soothing, they call it. _Not_ good seeing a grown man doing that. Especially this one. And making that _noise_.

"Stop it, Sherlock."

"You're going to _leave_ me." Sherlock goes on rocking. "I _know_ you are, and I _can't_ , it's _no good_ if you're not here -"

"Doesn't sound as if it's _much_ good when I _am_ ," John says sharply.

Sherlock gets up off the bed abruptly and starts banging his head against the wall, hard.

John lunges out of bed and grabs him by the hair, pulling him back. "Sherlock! Stop that NOW. You do NOT do that to yourself."

Sherlock is struggling, but suddenly goes floppy, like an oversized rag doll, lurching against John and knocking him back on to the bed where they land in a muddled sort of heap.

John remembers rather belatedly that he doesn't have any clothes on. Forgot that, jumping out of bed after Sherlock.

" _Promise_ me you won't do that again," he says, with as much authority as he can muster in the circumstances.

"I promise," Sherlock says. The kiss that follows is desperate, Sherlock pressing the whole length of his body against John's, pushing him down hard into the mattress.

John struggles and pushes Sherlock away, panting.

"Sherlock, I need to go to _work_. And then I need to _think_. Go away. I'll see you tonight. We'll talk. I promise. But you have to _go_ now and let me do the things I've got to do."

Sherlock still looks scared and miserable, but he doesn't argue or try to stop John.

"I might be late back," John warns him. "Not sure how long all this is going to take. But you _will_ be here, right? No running off doing something stupid and dangerous. Are we clear?"

Sherlock nods unhappily. Then in case this isn't good enough he says "I'll be here."

"OK," John says. "I'll see you later."

 

The last patient of the day has gone, and John sits at his desk thinking.

He knows not all addictions are to substances. Including Sherlock's. Sherlock's voice in his head says _And I said dangerous, and here you are._ They have that much in common, even if they choose different ways of expressing it. Sherlock isn't the only addict at 221b.

He knows that if they're going to go on living together he's going to have to make some changes of his own. But he doesn't know how to handle the next bit.

He wishes there was someone he could talk to about this. Realizes that for all his big talk about _lots of gay friends when he was at Bart's_ , the number of gay people he knows well _now_ is pitifully small. And most of _them_ aren't going to be much use.

Clara can't help seeing everything in terms of how it was with her and Harry. He's pretty sure she'd just tell him to get the fuck out of there while he still can. He knows that's what she'd like to say anyway, and the only reason she hasn't said it yet is that he hasn't given her the opportunity.

But he doesn't _want_ to leave Sherlock. Or at least he's not sure if that's what he wants. So he can't talk to Clara about this. Not yet, anyway.

And he's certainly bloody well not going to talk to _Lestrade_. Even if Lestrade _has_ apparently behaved a lot better about all this than John would have expected him to.

Never talks to Harry at all about anything, so that's a non-starter, even if the problem _wasn't_ to do with sex.

Eventually it occurs to him that there is _one_ person he hasn't thought of that he could try. One person who probably knows a fair bit about this sort of thing and who probably wouldn't mind John bending his ear. Who owes him a favour, sort of.

He can't quite believe he's going to do this, but apparently he is.

For some reason he remembers that night that feels like a million years ago, the night when it all started, and himself asking Lestrade why he put up with Sherlock. And Lestrade saying "Because I'm _desperate_ , that's why."

Sherlock seems to have a habit of making people _desperate_.

 

Maurice answers the phone, sounding a bit distracted. There's some sort of kerfuffle going on in the background. Maurice is saying to whoever it is "It's John Watson, I _told_ you about him. Clara's brother-in-law, you know Clara. Sherlock Holmes's _partner_."

John winces at that, but the magic word _partner_ seems to have stopped whatever the kerfuffle was.

"Sorry, John," Maurice says. "What can I do for you?"

"You know you said to get in touch any time if I needed some free advice," John says.

"Yes, sure," Maurice says. "If it's business -"

"It isn't," John says, thinking _I have officially gone mad now and it's all Sherlock's fault_. "But I need help and I don't know who else to ask."

It must show in his voice, how desperate he is, because Maurice doesn't ask questions or suggest John makes an appointment with his PA.

"No problem," he says. "Come round now, if you're free. You know where I live."

John sends Sherlock a quick text saying he'll be back around 8, and hails a taxi.

 

The source of the kerfuffle turns out to be a very pretty and _very_ jealous skinny young man called Carl. He's glowering like anything when John walks in but calms down when he gets a closer look at him. John thinks he might find this vaguely insulting if he didn't have better things to think about.

Turns out Carl was convinced it was _Lestrade_ on the other end of the phone. Maurice has obviously made the mistake of telling Carl about Lestrade.

Which of course is not the right way to think about it. At least Maurice is _honest_ , John thinks. Not like some people he could mention.

Bloody Lestrade gets _everywhere_.

He doesn't know what it is that Lestrade's got, but if anyone ever works out how to bottle it they could make an absolute _fortune_.

Have to come up with a better brand name than Fucking Copper though.

Despite the fact that John is manifestly _not_ Lestrade, Carl keeps huffing and fretting in and out of the sitting-room every five minutes until Maurice says will John please excuse them both for a bit and leaves John with a book. The book is quite useful, particularly the illustrations, but John wishes he'd brought his headphones, because he's fairly sure that Maurice has taken Carl off to the bedroom and these things are not so much fun for the non-participating audience. He puts a CD on the sound system and hopes for the best.

Maurice returns after a bit looking rather pink and embarrassed and apologetic. Whatever it was seems to have done the trick, because there are no more interruptions.

"OK," Maurice says, "fire away. I can't promise I'll know all the answers, but you can ask me anything you want."


	7. John: Before The Night Is Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **In Transition**

It's just before 8 when John gets back to 221b with a pocketful of supplies and a couple of useful addresses for later. Astonishing how much of this stuff there is to know. He's not sure yet whether to take Sherlock shopping _with_ him, which could be interesting (but would almost certainly be embarrassing as well) or whether to surprise Sherlock. That might be better. Sherlock likes surprises.

No sign of Sherlock. John feels the grip of panic clench in his gut. _Oh Christ_. Sherlock's _done_ something. _Taken_ something.

Then he hears the gas boiler going and realizes – since the heating's not on – that Sherlock must be having a shower.

 _Almost_ right. Sherlock is just coming out of the bathroom, towel wrapped round him and slipping down over his hips. Their eyes meet. Sherlock is breathing unevenly. John's not sure _he's_ breathing at all, and his good resolutions about _a proper talk first_ seem to have evaporated.

John grabs Sherlock and shoves him against the bedroom door, kissing him hard. Sherlock kisses him back frantically, hands tearing at John's clothes as John fumbles for the door handle. They stagger through the door, losing the towel somewhere on the way. John's not even sure the door is properly shut before they hit the bed. Just have to hope Mrs Hudson is out or doesn't decide now would be a good moment to talk about the catering for that nice civil partnership.

John doesn't get to keep his clothes on very long, which is just _fine_ by him, _it's all fine_ , he thinks, and snorts with laughter, briefly disconcerting Sherlock, who shows his displeasure by biting John's shoulder. Not that John minds. He's got some biting of his own to do, mostly Sherlock's neck, which might have been designed for the purpose and quite possibly _was_. Sherlock's hands are clawing at John's back and John goes on kissing and sucking and biting till he's left a mark on Sherlock's pale skin, he wants _everyone_ to see his stamp on this man.

Sherlock is swearing and groaning and seems to be trying to break John's ribs with his thighs. John pushes his hand between their bodies, which isn't easy given how tight Sherlock is gripping him, and starts groping Sherlock's cock. God, the _noise_ Sherlock is making. John's getting dizzy just listening to it.

Well, not _just_ from that. The feeling of Sherlock's cock in his hand, slippery already, and the heat of Sherlock's skin, and the clean wet faintly salty taste of it, and the smell of him that John can't identify or break down but which is _completely_ Sherlock and unlike anyone else's, and the _grip_ of him – _oh god_.

If John's not careful he's going to come before they've done anything, and that _really_ wouldn't be a good idea.

John wrenches his hand away, making Sherlock swear again, and uses all his strength to break Sherlock's tight grip on his ribs. He straddles Sherlock, holding him down on the bed, grabbing his hands and pulling them up over Sherlock's head. Not easy, because Sherlock's thrashing around all over the place.

" _Lie still_ ," John says fiercely.

Somewhat to his surprise, Sherlock does, panting.

Sending up a silent prayer to whoever is the patron saint of fellatio, John kisses and licks his way from Sherlock's neck across his chest, down his stomach to his cock. Sherlock's whole body has gone taut, he's gripping the mattress and trembling. John tries to remember everything he now knows about how to do this, and tells himself this really isn't a good time to be distracted by puns about _passing your orals_. Taking Sherlock's cock in his mouth, he applies himself to the serious business of making Sherlock come.

His jaw starts aching after a while, he's pretty sure he's strained something essential under his tongue, not to mention being about to die of suffocation, but it seems to be working. Sherlock's pulling John's hair really a bit too hard actually, and he's not swearing any more, just making odd sharp little sounds that suddenly coalesce into a yell as Sherlock comes, pulse after pulse of him.

Sherlock looks pretty stunned as John comes up for air. John thinks _he_ probably looks fairly wrecked as well. They lie there panting for a while, not good for anything else much. Sherlock seems to want to say something but it's not coming out; the most he can manage is a sort of whuffling noise. He's got hold of John's right hand and is kissing it repeatedly. Then his tongue slyly licks at John's palm before moving down to tease the pulse point in John's wrist. John groans, and Sherlock laughs shakily. He lets go of John's wrist and leans up over him, looking down at John and staring into his eyes till John feels dizzy and breathless all over again.

Sherlock brushes a barely-there kiss against John's mouth that makes him shiver with pleasure. Kisses John behind the ear, extraordinary, a jolt going right through his whole body, making him gasp and cling on to Sherlock. Kisses that place on John's neck and if this was what Sherlock had felt when John did that to himit's a wonder he didn't just ravish John right there and then, _oh god, please, there_. He's not sure if you can come just from kissing but he thinks he might be about to.

"Tell me what you want, John _,_ " Sherlock says hoarsely, and hearing _that voice_ saying that to him almost tips John over the edge.

Fighting back an absurd impulse to say _no really I'm fine_ , because it seems some conditioned reflexes die harder than others, John says "I want to fuck you."

They stare at each other as if neither of them can quite believe John just said that. Sherlock looks slightly apprehensive but also excited.

"Have you -" John decides not to finish that sentence.

"No," Sherlock says. "But I want you to."

Yes, and I want to be _first_ with you for once, John thinks. He's shaken by how ferocious that desire is.

What happens next is new for both of them and that's _just fine_. Doing things in the wrong order, get it right next time, means that John's hands are too slippery with lube to manage the condom, so Sherlock has to put it on for him, stroking it carefully down over John's erection. Which is erotic to a degree John hadn't expected – probably should have done, it is _Sherlock_ doing this to him after all – and makes John have to close his eyes and breathe carefully for a bit.

Sherlock is tight but John finds he knows where and how to press – _so he bloody should_ after all the prostate examinations he's given – and whether it's the prostate thing or a serious backlog of sexual frustration that's causing it, Sherlock is getting hard again. John goes on exploring Sherlock with his fingers, working him open patiently, persistently, until Sherlock is moaning and pushing against him and John can't wait any longer to be inside him, has to slide his fingers out and push his cock into that tight hot space, slow and careful till he finds Sherlock doesn't want him to be.

And that's _fine_ too, there's a lot of jagged emotion to work off here for both of them, both of them fucking hard and fast now, Sherlock's eyes closing as he grips John and squeezes him breathless, everything greedy and clenching and sharp.

" _Look at me_ ," John forces out, and Sherlock's eyes open wide.

Drowning again, a different kind of drowning, and the wrenching grasp of Sherlock's hand pushing John's hand to where he needs it, everything blurred in a glorious skidding shouting collapse. Sherlock gets there first, like he does with everything, _what else is new?_ , but not by much, which makes a nice change, John thinks, and finds he's giggling at the silliness of the thought and the rush of sensation mixed together, which is unexpected but seems to be OK as well. Undone at last, the pair of them, so thoroughly John thinks he for one may never get properly done up again.

In the near-silence that follows all this noisy messy activity, they hear the discreet click of the bedroom door being closed from the outside, and an unmistakable step going back down the stairs.

"Oh god," John groans, "there'll be no stopping her after this."

"Mm," Sherlock agrees, clearly trying not to giggle and almost succeeding, "you'll _have_ to make an honest man of me now."

Like _that's_ going to happen any time soon.

"Does Mycroft _have_ a shotgun?", John asks, a bit nervously.

Wouldn't put it past Mrs Hudson to tell him. Better start checking the wardrobe at night just in case, he thinks.

"I'm not sure about Mycroft," Sherlock says thoughtfully, "but Mummy _certainly_ does."


	8. Sherlock: Hold On To That Boy

Eventually, of course, they have to have that _proper talk_ John's so keen on. No amount of fidgeting or wriggling will get Sherlock out of it, though he tries his best. Just have to get it over with.

So Sherlock agrees readily that yes, _of course_ it was silly of him not to have _said_ how he was feeling and _of course_ he will from now on and he won't go rushing off to Lestrade _or anybody else_ every time something's not going how he wants it to, and _of course_ it is much better to talk about these things like mature adults.

Privately Sherlock thinks that they wouldn't be having anything _like_ such a nice relaxed conversation if they hadn't had sex first. Which is almost certainly true. And between talking and fucking as a way of dealing with problems in your relationship, Sherlock thinks, give him fucking _every_ time.

A well timed shower can work wonders, too. Just as well John texted him to say when he'd be home.

He's vaguely aware that he still hasn't told John about _that other time_ with Lestrade, but that really _was_ just an aberration, and it's obviously not going to happen again, so it probably doesn't matter. Doesn't need to shag Lestrade any more anyway now that John has suddenly started being so much more fun in bed. And, despite the _proper talk_ , which is a bit of a wet blanket on things, Sherlock's still too blissed out to worry about anything much.

Blissed out and relieved; so relieved he can't let himself feel how much in case he gets scared all over again. He really _did_ come quite close to losing John that time. He'll have to be more careful in future.

Whatever _that_ means.

He thinks there's _something_ John's not telling him, but it won't take him long to find out what it is, so there's no need to worry about that.

Wonders vaguely why John didn't do that good stuff _before_ , because then they needn't have had any of this trouble.

Still, safely over now. He sprawls happily across the bed, resting his head on John's chest and listening to the _immensely_ comforting noise of John's heart, calmer now than it was earlier. John's fingers are twisting and pulling his hair gently and occasionally doing rather pleasant things to his scalp and the back of his neck...

"Mmmm," Sherlock says appreciatively into John's chest. Then, seized by a sudden pang of renewed anxiety, he sits bolt upright and says "You're not to leave me, _ever. Promise_."

John pulls his hair much less affectionately than before, making Sherlock say " _Ow_."

"I'm not promising _that_ ," John says. "I'm not _completely_ stupid."

Sherlock prepares to argue but John forestalls him with a hand over his mouth.

"But," John continues, "I promise you I'm not leaving _now_."

Sherlock is muttering protests but they're mostly inaudible.

"In any case," John says, "it should be quite obvious that I haven't _nearly_ finished shagging you senseless, because apart from anything else _you're still talking_."

Sherlock stops muttering and kisses him instead. Much the most sensible thing to do in the circumstances.

He's not sure how long they go on kissing before it all starts getting interesting again. Quite a while perhaps. John's not as young as he was.

But eventually -

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asks.

"Ready when you are," says John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tracklist:**
> 
>  **Sherlock. The Weakness In Me**
> 
>  **Joan Armatrading, The Weakness In Me (from the album Walk Under Ladders, 1982)**
> 
>  **Clara. Give Or Take A Night Or Two**
> 
>  **from Leonard Cohen, Everybody Knows (1988)**
> 
>  **as sung by Rufus Wainwright:**
> 
>  **Lestrade. The Writing's On The Wall**
> 
>  **from Judy Garland, The Man That Got Away**
> 
>  **Sherlock. A Little Bit Stranger**
> 
>  **from Rufus Wainwright, Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk**
> 
>  **John. Ghost Of A Chance**
> 
>  **from You Go To My Head (recorded by Marlene Dietrich, 1939)**
> 
>  **John. Before The Night Is Through**
> 
>  **from Jace Everett, I Wanna Do Bad Things With You, as used in excellent Sherlock/John fanvid by ImperviousAffinity on YouTube**
> 
>  **Sherlock. Hold On To That Boy**
> 
>  **from Baby Plays Around (O'Riordan/MacManus), recorded by Anne Sofie von Otter and Elvis Costello (on album For The Stars, 2001)**


End file.
